


three can play at that game

by hoshi_ni_natte



Category: Gintama
Genre: Joui War, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25872640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoshi_ni_natte/pseuds/hoshi_ni_natte
Summary: Zura’s always been his own weird brand of affectionate, not counting the reality that the reluctant fondness among the three of them just happens to be part and parcel of bonds forged from spending the highsandlows of their youth together learning pen and sword, love and loss. But these days especially, Gintoki and Takasugi have noticedespecially,try to internally deny it as they have up until their little stunt today, that Zura’s been coming closer and closer, gaze and touch lingering for longer and warmer than before, dangerously intimate, but innocent. In true Zura fashion.
Relationships: Katsura Kotarou/Sakata Gintoki/Takasugi Shinsuke, Sakata Gintoki/Takasugi Shinsuke
Comments: 1
Kudos: 36





	three can play at that game

**Author's Note:**

> rejected title: two wrongs dont make a right but two stupid halves do make a whole damn idiot
> 
> so anyway gintama really ended without an actual joui war flashback arc despited deliberately teasing about it and while that's sad it also means it's free real estate. not that i can or will write about the actual war but i can set stuff in it without worrying too much. i want to stop writing stupid shit but my brain wouldnt leave me alone until i got this out of my system so. i got this idea after listening to bokutachi no kisetsu by does over and over for a week, especially that soulful "asobi tsuzuketeru. . . .oh baby, kudaranai daro baka mitai daro" ugh it got me bad. stupid, stupid boys. my rambling aside, here you go

_“Gintoki.”_ When Gintoki jolts at the sound of his voice like he hadn’t been expecting him, and when the dumb look of surprise on his face melts into one of—what’s that? _relief?—_ at the sight of him, Takasugi stops, takes a stance, and wraps his fingers around the hilt of his sword. He narrows his eyes at him in mock-threat, voice a low seethe: “What’d you call me up here for? Nothing stupid, I hope—”

“—You noticed, too, right?” Gintoki looks off, un-blissfully ignoring Takasugi’s piercing glare. He draws his knees to his chest instead of drawing his own sword, even if the silver sliver of moonlight reflecting on the unsheathed inch of Takasugi’s blade is rousing… _something_ , from deep within him. He thinks about how fun it’d be to fight Takasugi on a wrecked rooftop under the night sky—then he thinks better of it, for once. Just this once. He raises his hands for clearance; Takasugi can rest assured that something as stupid as fulfilling a fantasy isn’t what Gintoki called him up here for. If it unhinges him anyway that it’s something that matters, that’s Takasugi’s problem, not Gintoki’s. “’s been different lately.”

Involuntarily, Takasugi’s lowers his guard. Voluntarily, he nudges his sword back into its scabbard, though not without lamenting that it clicks back into place smoothly, unused. In spite of himself and his claim, he wouldn’t mind something stupid tonight, something simple, like counting up on his mental tally of wins and losses against Gintoki; those numbers are one of very few things keeping him sane when this war is driving all of them mad slowly but surely, silly as they are. Instead, they’re here to discuss something— _someone—_ serious, the most serious of them all. “…Y’mean Zura.”

Gintoki huffs at Takasugi’s response (a statement, not a question), and shares in his disappointment and everything else. That they’re on the same page saves Gintoki from having to exert more effort than he’s capable of at the moment, at least, because if he’s being honest he’s been losing his mind, too. Too much occupying it, weighing down on it, threatening to collapse it. It makes it hard to imagine or justify relaxing even in their own sword-crossing trouble-making way, because Zura’s on-edge enough. “…Not too different,” Gintoki eventually, airily adds, “but yeah. Don’t really gotta explain it to you, do I?”

“Nah,” Takasugi replies, as an impulse more than anything. But it’s also true, Gintoki doesn’t. While he’s pacing the roof tiles and deciding how close to the guy he should sit, Takasugi quietly reflects on how Zura’s been acting as of late, and on how he’d been aware this entire time, that it was only a _matter_ of time. Gintoki is such a champ—a chump, honestly—for being the one to bring it up first. “If you don’t need to tell me, why’re we talking about it now?”

Gintoki chances a glance up at the idle Takasugi, soiled bandages wrapped tightly around his arms and torso making him appear more injured than he is. That he managed to keep his captain’s coat on his shoulders or climb up here at all, ready to deck it out with him, serves to emphasize the stability of his condition even more. Not that Gintoki’s in any position to say anything when he’s in more or less the same state. That’s the whole point, though: the fact that they could be much, _much_ worse off. “I know what you did out there today.”

Takasugi tenses for all of half a second before simpering. Now that he looks at Gintoki, it’s both hilarious and discomfiting that they’ve ended up sporting matching though separately incurred injuries. “‘f course you do,” he drawls, bounding past Gintoki and casually settling onto a spot behind him. He lets the slope of the roof and the exhaustion creeping up on him guide his back, rest it against Gintoki’s. “‘Cause you did it, too.”

“For the record, I’m _always_ this reckless,” Gintoki counters haughtily, leaning into the frustratingly familiar heat of Takasugi’s back and the discomfort the pressure brings; bantering is less complicated than admitting he’d missed it today even if he’s a hundred percent certain it’s mutual. He looks over his shoulder, loud and irritating in Takasugi’s ear when he continues, “You go ahead of your troops, I go my way.”

Takasugi graces Gintoki with a close-up view of the vein in his temple popping. Any other time, he’d let it go since Gintoki’s simply stating the fair and ugly truth of how they do business, but right now he can tell that the guy’s obviously just pulled that out of his ass as to make some excuse. To get a word in for the sake of it, even if he doesn’t want to have to say anything, Takasugi retorts: “Doesn’t change the fact that we charged in like crazy.”

 _“Aha,”_ Gintoki chuckles, hollow, “crazy’s the right word for it.” It doesn’t change that today was quite the display of recklessness on both their ends: Gintoki forgetting which squad he was assigned to and tearing white then red—in that order specifically—into the battlefield like a blazing storm of fire as soon as he’d set foot in it, Takasugi diving right into the fray to wreak havoc of equal intensity and leave destruction in the wake of paths he deployed his troops away from.

“For _us,”_ Takasugi corrects, shallow. Nothing can change that, most recklessly of all, they weren’t watching each other’s backs. Fighting Amanto scum was easy, because even with their fancy armor and even fancier weapons, the only worthwhile match for either Gintoki and Takasugi is each other. But for that same reason, it was exceedingly difficult fighting against the invisible force of each other’s pull, because if it’s anywhere outside after-school (occasionally mid-school) scuffles and private bouts to let off steam, they’re firmly on each other’s side. Truth be told, this war pays like a suicide mission, and while they’re not fighting for anything nearly as noble as half the samurai here, with each other, they fight with double the power. They’ve operated so thus far with a knowledge they never acknowledged out loud: the only way either of them could—would— go down is without the security of the other.

“Damn, we’re really…” Gintoki starts, then trails off when he feels tremors through the layers of the clothes on their backs, the bandages. Takasugi’s trembling— _laughing—_ and Gintoki would tell him to knock it off, it’s creepy as shit, but in actuality he can’t help but laugh along. Because their unnegotiated ploy sure _is_ as sick as their current snickering, as rotten as their current resemblance to demons; it was ridiculous, and fucked up, and neither Gintoki nor Takasugi can say whether they did it because they’ve both completely tossed out reason, or because ridiculous and fucked up was their reason to begin with. Either way, the two of them _really_ had gone and done it, gone straight into harm’s way on purpose—for the _express_ purpose, of testing Zura—

—and what did they get? What do they have to show for it? Along with their unnecessary injuries, unsurprisingly splendid results; they got the answer they were seeking (albeit the one they don’t know if they even wanted) when Zura called the whole campaign off and declared retreat as soon as he caught wind of them collapsing, taken unawares that they’d purposely put themselves out there to confirm suspicions they harbored (because that’s how they are these days, all in or not in at all).

But absolutely nothing was contenting about Zura volunteering to stay behind in the rearguard to take over fending off pursuers from a battle they were winning up until the fact. The last of him they saw for the next few excruciatingly long hours was, _Katsura_ forgetting himself and _Zura_ flying into a full-blown rampage.

“…twisted, huh?” Takasugi mutters, both in light of the memory and to finish Gintoki’s sentence; that’s what all of this was, _twisted._ They knew in the back of their minds that this is what it would take, yet they _had_ to see it for themselves. Had to see Zura escorted into their makeshift clinic delirious and barely conscious, entirely unconcerned for his own wounds until he was promised that Gintoki’s and Takasugi’s had been treated properly. Nothing except catching a glimpse of their backs heaving with breath through the bloody bandages could calm him down enough to finally submit himself to those attending to him.

He lent himself to rest, too. Once Zura had finally fallen asleep, Gintoki and Takasugi stopped pretending that they were. They’d unspokenly conspired to fake it for fear of facing Zura the way he was, and the way they were— and for fear of getting an earful of something apart from a scolding from him, fear of seeing something more than the usual exasperation in those eyes. Takasugi got up first, demanding something to smoke, and Gintoki second, begging for something to drink. The latter slipped out soon after, though not without patting a hand on the former’s shoulder in vague invitation. Chest tight with medicated herbs and whatever else, Takasugi followed Gintoki. And here they are.

Having a half-baked conversation because it chokes them up equally and unlike anything else to think about the attention Zura’s been giving them. Gintoki feels something wrench in his gut every time he thinks of the habit Zura’s made of cupping the nape of Takasugi’s sweaty neck and caressing the side of it with his fingers as he fell asleep while laying out strategies with him. Takasugi feels something claw at his throat every time he thinks about the habit Zura’s made of humming into the dirty hair of Gintoki’s sleepy head as he nodded off while stationed as the night-watch. Right now even when they’d _consciously_ brought this upon themselves, it’s still thoroughly unsettling to think that over and against their (good) odds in today’s rally, Zura chose _them._

Zura’s always been his own weird brand of affectionate, not counting the reality that the reluctant fondness among the three of them just happens to be part and parcel of bonds forged from spending the highs _and_ lows of their youth together learning pen and sword, love and loss. But these days especially, Gintoki and Takasugi have noticed _especially,_ try to internally deny it as they have up until their little stunt today, that Zura’s been coming closer and closer, gaze and touch lingering for longer and warmer than before, dangerously intimate, but innocent. In true Zura fashion.

And that’s the worst of it—he might not even realize. Even now when they’re in the middle of a godforsaken war or precisely because of it, Zura’s become so absorbed in being general that if confronted about it he’d definitely chalk it up to some superb sense of duty. And no one would doubt it, because if Zura believes it, then his men believe it. Gintoki and Takasugi found evidence of that in how the men who dragged them away concluded without second thought that this was the best call, because they couldn’t _possibly_ have two of their best men fighting with injuries, disregarding the fact that even in that state they could easily take out at least a couple hundred more units from the enemy flanks.

The retreat wasn’t called by Katsura with the battle in mind, no. It was called by _Zura_ , with _Gintoki and Takasugi_ in mind. A coward through and through either way, operating the _same_ way out at war and in his heart: quit while they’re ahead, minimize losses, regroup, then try again if they have to, no matter the gravity or graveness. He can get left behind by his precious family to raise himself and he can be revoked of his precious, prestigious little scholarship, but he _will_ fight for the things he’s come to treasure thereafter. With one of them being taken by force as if scorching to the ground the place he’d built for them wasn’t enough, now he’s deathly _(understandably)_ afraid of losing the few rest of them left—his closest comrades.

Gintoki and Takasugi sit back and let the ache of their injuries manifest wholly, good as self-inflicted, because at some point they’ve all just become the type to sooner lose themselves than let themselves lose those they love without a putting up a fight (case _in_ point, they’re participating _here_ despite not giving a flying fuck about this country or this world). It’s just a terrible thing that Zura would come fishing them out of a pinch and wiping their asses for them, never banishing them out of his hair or absolving himself of any responsibility for what happens to those two huge pains in the ass, in favor of persistently looking after them and receiving fuck-all in return as long as they’re _there_ at all, because as usual, he’s a stubborn coward.

They sough at the same time, at the same thought. Un/ironically, Zura’s the bravest of them all; the truth is, the small samurai in his heart has grown big enough to see past this war. He’s developed a vision of taking that which they lost back, and seeing to it that there will come a day, a dawn to an era, where no one has to lose anything they hold dear to needless war ever again. It’s a beautiful world which Zura would, in place of the one who taught him to become his own samurai, build out of rubble from the ground up. No one can take that away from him—not this rotting world, not this whatever-war, and not good-for-nothings like Gintoki and Takasugi, who as worthless samurai have no place in that.

And they have to show him that somehow, if he’s too busy looking too far ahead to see that they’ve ended up at a crossroad. They’re not about to give up this recklessness when it’s getting them the farthest across the battlefield, closest to their goal, because that’s all they joined this war for, all they bother with this world for. Gintoki and Takasugi are just naive brats, brutes, uncaring for what happens after this or if they’ll even live to see it. Zura’s going to have to get it through his head that he has to give up on them eventually—he, of _all_ people, should know what kind of suffering it brings to nurture attachment to things that will inevitably be snatched away from him one day, sooner or later. This recklessness spells _sooner_ than later. And sooner means that the closer he gets, the more it will haunt him if he can’t call a retreat as soon as he was able to today, even when Gintoki’s and Takasugi’s impending demise will be no one’s fault except their own.

They don’t know who shakes his head first, but their hair tangles and they’re laughing again at the futility of it all; if they could make Zura un-involve himself from the likes of them lickety-split, they’d have it _so_ easy. Not just now, but back then, too. If Zura weren’t the kind of kind that makes them onigiri without being asked. If Zura weren’t the kind of kind that complains but remains willing to get punished along with them. If Zura weren’t the kind of kind that lives determined to be there for them in all their good-for-nothing glory for what must be a decade now and then some. Instead he’s steadfast and unyielding, and considering how airheaded he is, he’s without contest the most hard-headed person in either of their godforsaken lives.

It’s lost on them, both just what they can do and just how much time passes between them in silence, stuck in their own heads with thoughts that, though unvoiced, are shared between them in deep mutual understanding. Regardless, it’s an unproductive time all over, over all. Gintoki isn’t the one in charge of keeping score, but when Takasugi gets up to dust himself off and end their meeting without announcing any change in their match record, it leaves him oddly unsatisfied. So thoughtlessly, he tails after him, off the roof down the rickety, half-decayed ladder, the last few steps of which he skips.

Purely out of boredom and the consequent urge to bait, Gintoki composes a jest in his head about how Takasugi must jump around so much to make up for his height. But Takasugi lands gracefully, feet planted firmly on the ground and legs wide, bent slightly to accommodate his momentum, and it rouses something in Gintoki again. He can’t hold back this time, welcomes it even. “Say, Takasugi…” he calls out, and Takasugi turns around at that, wondering what else he could possibly have to say when their pointless barely-a-conversation reached no conclusion— “You haven’t fought enough today either, have you?”

Takasugi raises an eyebrow, raises his chin, watches as Gintoki jumps from a single step higher and lands across him in the same manner. Gintoki’s palm strokes the hilt of his sword coolly and steadily, and his eyes are suggestive of a challenge, of routine so deeply engrained into their systems by countless encounters that it’s become second nature. Takasugi’s grown undeniably partial to it, and having to cop out early would naturally leave beasts like them itching, so he hardly hesitates as he moves to mirror him, crooked smirk and pent up emotion begging to be vented out and all, “Mm… Wanna go, Gintoki?”

Each other’s next inhale is all the answer they need. They’re in impeccable sync from the spring in their step to the swish of their swords coming loose from their respective scabbards, and in impeccable sync when they pour their souls into their first motion to strike—for better or for worse, they’re also in impeccable sync down to abruptly freezing and holding their breaths when above each other’s excitement they make out Zura’s frantic voice, _“Where are those two?? Didn’t I say not to let them out of your sight?? They’re wounded—”_

 _“—So are you, Katsura-san!”_ they hear someone else pleading, and that, along with the surety that neither of them is going anywhere, compels them to turn their attention away from each other and the hairline of space left before their blades connected, towards the dialogue. “ _Please take it easy… We need to be in top shape for when negotiations start for reinforcements from Katsurahama, so at least until then—!!”_

 _“—I’m aware. Head back first and get rest then,”_ Zura orders, tone flat and cold even as he properly acknowledged the argument, even if he isn’t going to let it stop him. _“I’ll look for them myself.”_ His declaration is almost interrupted by another desperate _“—Katsura-san—!!”_ but he’s made up his mind to give his incorrigible childhood companions a damn piece of it even if it kills him. _“Knowing those two they’d be having a go at it this very moment, and the only one who can get in between them is me.”_ There’s a pause in both their dwindling exchange and their approaching footsteps, that’s eventually punctuated by a bland suggestion from Zura: “ _Unless you want to try to get in between them yourself.”_

There’s another pause, tenser this time, except this time it’s punctuated by heavy footsteps shuffling to turn tail and run away as fast as humanly possible. Those footsteps weren’t Zura’s, and that wasn’t a suggestion—it was a warning, in its own right. Zura by himself commands authority, but if it’s the prospect of getting caught in Takasugi and Gintoki’s clashes, it inspired terror that impel their men to show their gratitude to whichever gods they pray to for making them allies over adversaries. All that and Zura aside, they’ve yet to meet anyone who can effectively mediate when they’re set off.

Zura is light on his feet and mostly unimposing. Gintoki and Takasugi _feel_ more than they hear him near, though, his aura one of sheer self-assurance and utter annoyance; he’s not in the wrong to have it. He’s not wrong about them going at it, and he’s right not to have given them any credit, because it’s not like they’ve ever let Zura catch a break from their shenanigans. Peace comes only with either sleep or death, and their antics are more welcome than those, just shy of more preferable.

Gintoki’s yet to inspect the extent of Zura’s injuries, but out of sympathy for him for all the bullshit they put him through today, he lets the end of his match with Takasugi come before the start; he gives, relaxing the arm wielding his sword away from Takasugi’s to put away for the night for good. But the moment he does, Takasugi swings, the clang of it a loud screech that’s sure to give their location away and get them in even deeper shit. While that distracts, startles, and confuses Gintoki enough to drop his sword, Takasugi throws his in the same direction and catches Gintoki’s wrist in a powerful, _painful_ tug towards himself.

He ought to sock him in the face for moving so suddenly and making noise, but in his haste and poor instinctive consideration, all Gintoki can do is raise an arm and brace it on the ladder to avoid slamming Takasugi into it with his full body weight. He scowls, searching for the words to question what the _fuck_ he’s even doing, “We can’t hide from Zura like this—” but Takasugi claps his other hand on the juncture of Gintoki’s neck and shoulder, digs his nails into his flesh through his clothes to keep him from escaping from his grasp. _“Hide?_ We’re not gonna,” he whispers, menacing. He yanks Gintoki’s body impossibly near, and the jerk slides his jacket off his shoulders.

Gintoki registers it in slow motion, Takasugi dragging him to hell while backing up onto the material of his jacket and into the ladder, wincing at the sting of it but _smiling_ wickedly when he looks out of the corner of his eye. Gintoki traces his line of vision, to where Zura is standing motionless, emotionless, wordless, _hopeless,_ at the sight of them. Gintoki gulps and eyes Takasugi again, hyper-aware of how tight his grip on him is and how unsubtly he tilts his chin upward. It makes him let out a sick, sadistic laugh under his breath in kind: “You wanna break his heart?”

“I’ll do what it takes,” Takasugi says back simply, and Gintoki swears electricity skittered up his spine, buzzed the hairs on the back of his neck under Takasugi’s fingertips. And it’s supremely foreboding, the intensity in Takasugi’s eyes bearing into Gintoki’s very conscience, the wild breath teasing the curl of Gintoki’s lip. Something’s making to dislodge itself from his chest again at the sensation, at the implication. Even for a last-ditch attempt, isn’t this just way too much? Has Takasugi always been this ruthless? And will he _always_ be this ruthless, when it comes to destroying what he yearns for but ultimately _can’t_ have, or save? Gintoki might be of similar sentiment, but he isn’t about to take it out on the world or anyone but himself.

It’s difficult for him to process it more though, because he finds his own hands shifting without him willing them too, one coming to rest on Takasugi’s hip and the other on his waist, like it’s where they belong. Gintoki glances down nonchalantly to measure the non-distance, and turns it over in his head instead, how or _why,_ while unnerving, this doesn’t seem too unnatural. Maybe it’s because if either of them moved their hands any other way, if either of them wishes it enough, this can still turn into a fight, and that’s always been worth the burns.

It’s never been out of the ordinary for them to forego swords altogether and tackle each other to the ground, artless, primal. Hell, when that one twilight Zura and Takasugi found soot and ash where their school— _home—_ should’ve been with none among it but a sleepless, dead-eyed Gintoki, Takasugi had run at him at full-speed and physically hauled him out of whichever pit of despair he was wallowing in, and with nothing but his bare fists fought him to within an inch of his life if only to set him, and himself, afire anew with resolve to become stronger than they were the night before. Of course, that’s even if it meant using each other as a means to that end. And it stuck, because that’s how they’ve always been; whether or not it had to do with their competitive streak, they were each other’s convoluted comfort, and if they can get under each other’s skin, they can soothe hidden scars that lay there unbeknownst to others.

So if there’s anything that would give rise to unease in this position and proximity, it wouldn’t be unfamiliarity. And it wouldn’t be Zura’s presence either—he’s always been there. He was there to lick their wounds for them after they had cried and bled their whole hearts out then, and he’s here now, an ever-present, ever-persistent reminder that they _can’t_ keep doing this, but if they do they better not forget that he’s there for them to answer to. Here and now, Zura _knows_ that they know that he’s watching, and that which bent then broke in the depths of his chest when they got themselves nearly slayed, when he rounded the corner and saw them, is lurching alive, and it’s vicious _._

He’s furious; all at once he comes to the quite sound conclusion that they’re doing what they’ve _been doing_ with clear, indubitable intention of causing him displeasure, discomfort, like it changes anything. Zura recognizes it now that he’s gotten some semblance of rest and the fog of anxiety in his head has cleared; they’re alive and well and up to no good like they always are. This entire act was orchestrated to get to Zura, and it’s messing with him and making him lose his head, sure, but he’s not going to lose his composure just because he’s incredulous. It would be as if he hasn’t had his work cut out for him keeping those two no-good brats in line since the beginning. Unless they learn, Zura’s learned, it’s useless to reach out to them and scold them so. So, Zura elects to do the opposite of whatever on earth they’re trying to make him do, and stays—because three can play at that game.

The longer Zura stands by waiting like an expert with endless talent for it, arms crossed sternly, firmly over his chest, the hotter the tension gets between Takasugi and Gintoki, and it’s awkward, and bothersome, and one other perverse thing all of them refuse to name for the sake of sanity. Gintoki and Takasugi have half a mind to give up, but the other half says to go ahead and push it since they’ve already gone this far. And by the universal law of arithmetic, much more straightforward than their flimsy bushido, two halves happen to add up to a whole. That’s the only reason, Gintoki convinces himself, that he shuts his eyes and leans down to press his lips to Takasugi’s, meets no resistance.

It’s clumsy and sloppy and _at best,_ the worst kiss either of them or anyone in this world must have ever experienced. And it shows, but Zura’s undaunted, unfazed. Gintoki and Takasugi can sense him standing his ground, and at this point a touch further won’t hurt—well, it’s supposed to, but Takasugi’s more than willing to take that on to make this last longer, cut deeper. He’s brought his hands to Gintoki’s jaw now to pull him down, because he’s _not_ going to stand on his toes just to lick past his lips and into his mouth.

Gintoki almost bites his tongue in surprise—Takasugi’s, not his own—because in the back of his mind he starts rationalizing how Takasugi could know how to do this with skill that’s making him dizzy, but among the millions of ideas that flash through his head, none of them could possibly involve him or Zura when they always were too close to do any of this. Takasugi’s teeth score his lower lip, splitting it open and the blood is bitter, like whatever he was smoking just now and the truths of life. Gintoki tells himself he loathes this but even when Takasugi’s hands fall, he can’t find it in himself to break the kiss, not yet, can’t get enough.

On the other hand, Gintoki tastes sweet like syrup and inexperience and naivety, and Takasugi decides that he loathes this, too. But he can’t get enough either; he never does run from anything he hates. It’s why he’s drawn to Gintoki and to carnage alike— it’s just the way things are. Gintoki is kissing him back with abandon now, and the blood honest-to-god makes it feel like a fight, one of many they can have only with each other, and that’s his reason for keening into this. Their synergy thrums and pulses in ebbs and flows, riling them to a high they’ve simultaneously had their fill of and been missing out on for way too long. Then it caves in, along with the ladder behind them, sending them into an otherwise essentially violent embrace.

What was a single kiss has d/evolved into whatever this mess is supposed to be, a full-blown make-out session charged with, Zura observes, the same aggression (possibly (probably) passion) that they blaze with when crossing swords, flaying each other open and turning each other inside-out. A strange anticipation overrides his anger, and Zura stands back, bets with himself—how far are those two willing to take this farce which _isn’t_ a farce? Have those two idiots only realized they’re in love with each other?

Zura blinks obliviously when his heart skips a beat. Has _this_ one idiot only realized he’s in love with them both?

Gintoki gathers enough of himself from the frayed edges of his common sense to break away when Takasugi hisses. He’d ended up pinned against the wall uncomfortably, injury freshening and teeth gritting but cutthroat, still. Gintoki doesn’t even notice that Takasugi’s lifted up a knee between his thighs; his heart is pounding so loudly in his ears that it must be affecting his memory, because he can’t even recall when he’d bitten him back, can only stare at the mess of blood smeared all over Takasugi’s mouth like lip paint on a whore who doesn’t know when to quit.

When Gintoki dives back in, it’s less to kiss Takasugi and more to steal his breath and strength so he’d let him go before this gets any more out of hand than it already has. He stumbles back and stretches an arm out to hold Takasugi down, wiping the blood and the kiss off on his wrist. He averts himself deliberately from the temptation of the sound Takasugi makes in the back of his throat, and accidentally makes eye contact with Zura in the middle of it which he immediately regrets more, because it leaves him open to be shot at and told off pointedly: “Are you done?”

It’s Takasugi who follows Gintoki’s line of vision now, and Zura, not too oddly, looks like an embodiment of the calm before a storm, a natural calamity waiting to happen, except it won’t. Takasugi bites the inside of his cheek, let down by Zura’s relentlessness, but it’s not like he can say he wasn’t predicting this outcome, and if he has the free time to be upset over his plan getting foiled, he may as well use it to plot his next move, whenever, wherever that’ll be. He’ll end this quickly with a prod of his tongue at the bruised cut on his lip to frustrate himself and a nod at Zura to reply, a toneless _“Yeah.”_

“And?” Zura demands as he sidles up to them, “What exactly were you trying to achieve?” When Gintoki and Takasugi cast their gaze down at their feet as if they’re at any level acquainted with shame, Zura considers it for a definite moment: letting his hair down and bashing their skulls in to chide them, even if even that’s never made them listen or behave. But they’re all injured and worn out by the war and each other and love, it’s a hundred years too early for him to be scolding them with that method, and even if he even had that kind of energy, he doesn’t really have that kind of right. Zura’s developed the inclination to be the one that cleans up after them out of necessity more than anything, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been a fellow good-for-nothing from the start, and when they gave him his nickname they taught him personal greed, too.

Surely, Takasugi and Gintoki must realize that. If they don’t, he’ll gladly remind them, pay them back. Much to their surprise, Zura doesn’t bring his fist any higher than their hearts. He plainly takes one more step forward, towards Takasugi first, opens his hand to touch his fingertips to his chest, and closes in. Takasugi doesn’t struggle like he did with Gintoki; he can’t seem to. Zura’s touch is weightless and so are his lips, when they meet Takasugi’s for the shortest fraction of a second; it’s over before he can react and Zura’s turning, moving his hand to Gintoki’s chest, feeling it jump under his touch and kissing him, too.

“Dear me!” Zura spins on a heel right after, walking off and shaking his head exasperatedly, theatrically almost: “What _ever_ will I do with Takasugi and Gintoki??”

Takasugi and Gintoki watch his back disappear into the night without any inkling for an answer. They spare and share one look before exhaling shakily and promptly proceeding to howl at the ridiculous relief that washes over them— Zura’s not even _mad._ Or maybe he _is_ , maybe they really all have gone mad. Their wounds open, bleeding all over again from the effort of laughter, but they don’t give two hysterical damns. Because they’d pulled all of this, all to end up proving that they’ve been paid back in full, taught tenderness and fear of it by Zura, love a force greater and mightier than any war, finding _them, monsters,_ cowering and groveling and grasping at straws. At the very end of it all, if anything, if anyone, it’s Takasugi and Gintoki who are the cowards; it’s them who don’t know what they’ll ever do without Zura.

**Author's Note:**

> the point is theyre all in love with each other and it's sad. anyway  
> dont be mad about how i characterized zura i just couldnt stop thinking about how ten years later he throws tantrums over his men talking about k-drama and ignoring him and not treating him like an actual leader so i just like to imagine he would always have had bad temper. what more when it's over his best friends being Fucking Idiots.  
> it was so weird writing this without the Bad Blood between gintoki and takasugi i kept having to remind myself i set this before the whole Gintoki Chose Them Over Sensei thing so they are actually "friendly" "friends". this was also before sakamoto came if you caught it. gintakazura is very good and i wanted this awkward and convoluted confrontation for them but i am still for joui4 world domination  
> that's all. let me know what you think if you wanna! thanks for reading!


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